Chronicles of Riddick: Planet of Lost Souls
by HoT.aGaiNsT.a.WaLL
Summary: It's been years since Riddick has seen Naruto. Now, they are forced to work together again as a new evil appears in the world. Will ruined relationships mend? Read Pitch Dark first.
1. Prologue

**Warning: **graphic violence, sexual situations, adult content, strong language, etc.

**Disclaimer:** No, I obviously do not own Naruto or Riddick. It would be way, way awkward if I did.

**A/N:** A quick thank you to all of my previous readers. You guys are my crack. I'd also like to say that this is kind of like a preview chapter. This is meant to tease and hook you to the story that I am still currently working on. I hope it works. As always, read and review. I love you,

Tara

* * *

There were habitable worlds, and there were inhabitable worlds. Granted, there were also worlds that were rendered mildly habitable, but shouldn't have been. The most popular of the latter was a hellish, melted, and re-formed planetary body of _un_remarkable size, and it appeared with a lacklusterness so broad that no one seemed to bother with it. The name was simple enough; it had long been supplanted by the inhabitants of the planet. Or, rather, the inmates.

Crematoria.

Crematoria was a world of heat and emptiness and death. The people who worked there knew that. The people who were imprisoned there knew that. It was a world where sunrise killed—it blistered the skin before blasts of gaseous flames consumed them until they were nothing. It was a planet of nothing. There was no life on its surface. Any life that ever tried to bloom was washed away with each new murderous dawn. The smell of burnt flesh and sulfur lingered there.

The guards knew all this; still they lugged their burden along the rough, jagged path that wound its tortured way through the scarred, twisted lava field. They moved with the urgency of men assigned to the unpleasant duty they had tried, and failed, to avoid. The fact that their load consisted of once of their own engendered no additional sympathy on their part. The fact that the dead man they carried was a former colleague and friend didn't make his demised corpse any less heavy.

Relieved at having reached their destination, they finally came to a halt near a shallow depression that had been machine gouged from the reluctant rock surface. The small hollow wasn't empty, however. It was scattered with ash, from which protruded a few angular objects. On closer inspections, one became recognized as a human femur; another was the bleached remains of a skull. What had once been human remains were now dust and ash and bones. No artificial agency was needed to reduce the bodies down like that.

They only had to wait for sunrise.

The two men extracted the body from the container, wincing at the sight of its mangled form. It wasn't in tact. It was marred by deep bruises and harsh lacerations; one glance was enough to know that the wounds hadn't occurred in some freak accident. The unfortunate had been involved in a fight that he had obviously lost. Among the few effects that were still adorning the corpse was the ident-card that hung around his bloodied neck. A grim picture with bold letters underneath read "V. Pavlov" on the little slip of plastic. Some ruttin' wag back in the prison had jokingly said the guard died like a dog (1). No had laughed.

The two charged with taking the former V. Pavlov to his last resting place glanced around anxiously. The uneasy pair were plainly in a hurry to get away from where they were. There was no idea of digging a grave. It would have been a waste of time. Any sort of tablet or tombstone would be wasted. Crematoria would see to that.

"Should we, uh, say somethin'?" The shorter of the two glanced up at his partner nervously. "I mean, I know Pavlov pretty well. He warn't a bad guy."

On Crematoria, that could've been considered a complement. Neither guard nor prisoner was exactly "good". His companion was too busy gazing worriedly to the east, his eyes locked on the horizon. The dull maroon glow that had been seeping over the jagged, twisted mountains was beginning to pale toward crimson. Very soon, it would fade to pink. Then yellow. And then white. When it turned white, they had better hope that they were underground. _Deep_ underground.

"Sure," he nodded, gesturing to the motionless body of their former colleague. "Recite a whole sermon, if you want." I'm sure Vlad won't interrupt you. Take all the time you want. I'll wait for you—_inside_."

His friend's gaze strayed over to the coming dawn. The coming hell. He was already backpedaling away from the morbid scene. "Maybe later. I knew Vladimir. He wouldn't want us to be late for breakfast."

The other man had already started for the nearby access tunnel. "Shit, if it was your or me, he'd already have gotten the hell out of here."

It was as appropriate a description of their surroundings as it was of their situation.

**

* * *

Down Below was business as usual—messy, loud, crude, and unpleasant. Used to the outlandish surroundings, the three guards muscling the transfer box did not comment on it, didn't bemoan their hellish fate. They were getting paid. They were getting paid _well_. They put up with a routine of daily crap with their minds of the cash that was piling up in distant credit accounts. Most of the time, it was thoughts like those that got them through the day.**

No noise came from the box. No trouble. That suited them just fine.

Occasionally, one of the gruffer guards would bend slightly and peer through the air vents that riddled the container. He took in the lithe, almost feline, form. The choppy hair that hung in a narrow face—a face made of practical perfection. Te contents of the box growled, low and dark, but it didn't look at him. Just as well. There were rules. As a guard on Crematoria, they could bend the rules, but only with considerable risk to their status. If they bent them enough, they might end up on the other side of the social divide. It was always tempting, but never worth the fatal choice. So the guard kept his thoughts to himself and concentrated on work instead of what other noises the wiry from within could make.

They entered a large room, passing a large kennel as they did. Something with murderous bright eyes moved closer to the bars of it's cage and started howling. It's neighbors quickly joined in. No human could ever make those noises, but they could definitely hear them. One of the guards cringed and cursed, catching the attention of the large beast closest to him. It's shining eyes swiveled to focus on his, and it snarled deep in it's throat. The guard looked over, briefly anxious that it might break out simply because he spoke in it's presence. He calmed almost immediately, knowing the cages were strong enough to withstand it.

Another growling sound pierced through the air, and the beasts in their cages simpered empathetically. Gleaming eyes latched on to their friend's captors, and the promise of death and blood hung dangerously in the air. The guards tried to ignore the strange reactions that their animals made. They always got so riled with this one around.

Tone spiked with agitation, the man in the lead looked back at the box. "Oughta know better by now. You act like an animal, gonna slot you up like one. Those are the rules. You shoulda worked it different."

While carrying out his duty, the speaker's nearest coworker was experiencing a moment of unusual thoughtfulness. "Poor fuckin' Pavlov. Never had a chance—one-on-one like that."

"He shoulda watched 'imself. Always relyin' on his size, underestimatin' the opposition. Never, _never_ do that. Size don't mean nothin' if you ain't got the moves—especially in this case." The speaker replied, less than sympathetic as he directed his words to the inhabitant of the crate they carried. "You know _all_ 'bout that, don't ya, Big Bad? You get what you give 'round these parts. But _when_ you get it—aw, that's the thing… _When_."

It wasn't a direct threat, but the implications in his voice wouldn't go ignored or unacknowledged. However, the inhabitant of the box seemed unimpressed. The observation was met with silence.

Still muttering to himself, the other guard in the front continued to remember his over confident dead colleague. "This one's always been trouble. I know it from the beginning. First time our eyes met. I _smelled_ it."

Finally reaching their destination, they set down the box in front of the open, empty kneel slot. Safeties were slid simultaneously off the box and weapons. Operating as one, the pair at the front of the box worked the seals until the doors clicked open. Almost immediately, they stepped back. Fast.

The Animals howled louder, objecting to kenneling the beast they revered. Fingers tensed on triggers. Eyes focused with unblinking intensity on the small space between the open kennel and the open box. Nothing happened.

Maulsticks emerged next; they pulled them from their belts and jammed them through the small air vents. Muttered curses filled the air. They wanted _this_ job _done_. Delaying the inevitable just meant that other duties were being delayed. They were already in a bad mood; the tensions were high all around. The box occupant's recalcitrance wasn't helping their irritableness.

It wasn't improved any when one of the maulsticks were ripped away—only to be turned and shoved through the owner's hand. The guard howled in pain, a sad parody of the hellish growling that came from their own creatures. He grabbed his hand, screaming profanities as he tried to stopper the blood off. Disgusted, the man in charge of the quintet moved forward. His maulstick still hung from his belt, waiting to be used even as he grimly raised the muzzle of his riot gun.

He never got to use it as a blur of bronze skin and dark clothes went by the crack between kennel and box. It was so fast he almost didn't register it until the automatic locks slid shut on the kennel door. They were old and well used, but they functioned well enough. Transfer complete, the guards let out a loud sigh of relief. The idiot who'd been gouged by his own maulstick whined pitifully as the leader slapped him over the head. The moron got what he deserved for his carelessness.

Relaxed now, they filed out of the room, ignoring their secured prisoner and the howling of his inhuman kennelmates. Behind them, their delivery pressed back against the wall of the kennel, a tired sigh hanging on his lips. He was beautiful, in his own way. In his early twenties, the occasional battle scar marred his almost flawless skin. Light blonde hair hung in his face as he folded himself in the metal cage, his knees drawing up to his chest. A deep, wise azure gaze peered from under perfectly mussed bangs, and a low snarl rolled from his throat.

"This is such _shit_," he grumbled, plucking at his skintight wife-beater uncomfortably.

It was fucking hot in that metal box. The tighter the clothes, the hotter he felt—but it had to be tight. Tight meant it was less likely for anyone to get a hold of him. He'd learned that back in the day. Back before he needn't care _who_ or _what_ caught him. Back before he had the ability to shred any opponent he met to pieces. Granted, he'd never do that on purpose. He felt sick over what he did to Pavlov—no matter how much of a ruttin' _ass_ the man had been. He hadn't deserved to go out like that. Letting out a bitter sigh, he stared at his shaking hands with distaste; they were capable of so much harm. He knew that if he very well wanted, he could tear out of the place with hell on his heels. He knew that it wouldn't be happening for a long time. Not while _he_ was out there… Searching.

Howls and whines and yips kept the small room alive with noise. His companions know what he was and were protesting his captivation. They knew what he was—how _strong_ he was. They detested such power being locked up. They pleaded with him to break loose. To be free. But he refused. He had enough blood on his hands for a thousand lifetimes.

"Could we cut the _goddamn noise_?" He finally erupted, feeling his inner-demon bellow with frustration.

He could feel it crawling under his skin. The power he had. The power he wouldn't use on such feeble, breakable humans. He felt the longing again. The beasts in their cages fell silent, resting submissively in their respective kennels as their Alpha fumed silently. His skin itched for _him_. He felt the desire—the never ending urge just to be near _him_. His mate. His eternal one. He craved him dreadfully. Ardently. But he'd never give in. He could only hope that, wherever _he_ was, he would give up the search. That the urge wouldn't drive him to the ends of the universe searching for something that was only halfway done. Searching to complete the bond he'd started. Searching for the bond that he, himself, was hiding from.

The prisoner seethed. At himself. At this place. At the 'Verse. He wanted to be with him. But he'd be damned if he let himself make another suffer the way he had in his long, long life. He wasn't supposed to be happy; he didn't disserve a "Happily Forever After". He was the Big Bad, and you know what? He was just fine with that…

…Kind of…

tbc.


	2. Chapter 1: Snow Blind

**Chapter 1:** Snow Blind

**A/N:** So, this was supposed to be a little bit longer. It's written out in my notebook- and it's, like, ten pages long. I ended up breaking it into two parts, and this is your first. I'll try to have the second typed up soon. Read, relax, and review. We're in for a long, bumpy ride...

* * *

The snow came in waves, like the surf crashing into rocks during a storm. It swirled around like wet sand. It cut visibility down to next to nothing. The wind was icy and damp and _goddamn_ cold. Never bright, the light of this world's sun shaded all the way over into the ultraviolet. There wasn't much to see by—even without the massive storm raging overhead.

He hardly noticed the harsh squall. He was far too preoccupied with his instruments to notice the heavy drift. He _was_ cold, however. Despite his high-tech gear, the ice found all sorts of ways to make him shiver. His hands were steady, though. Not that it would've mattered if his hands were shaking because the gun he carried wasn't designed for accuracy. It was consistent, though. And geared up to kill.

Despite his advanced gear and past experience in the trade, Codd's quarry continued to elude him. That it had him searching blindly was starting to grate on his nerves. His was a business in which personal as well as professional pride was taken in delivering the goods. _This_ was one delivery that was particularly overdue.

"Codd," his name crackled unclearly through his communicator.

He rolled his eyes, hand flying to press on his earpiece. "What is it, Jackie-boy?"

"Find anything, yet?" Crackled back.

"_Hell_, Jack," Codd huffed in irritation. "I can't find my own ruttin' _hands_ in this mess."

There was a chuckle, "Well, get your ass back here. If you can't find him, you can't find him."

"Alright," Codd relaxed—his ultimate downfall. "See you—"

His scanner wailed at the same instant he did. The communicator's earpiece fizzed in the snow. There was no one to hear or respond to the increasingly fretful queries it emitted, even though it was still attached to an ear. Unfortunately, the ear was no longer attached to anything.

On the other end of the line, Jack fretted over the controls. He was trying to get something. Anything. Codd had gone cold—and not from the planet's daily climate. The communicator was nonresponsive. Or rather, it crackled and hissed, popped and hummed. It was the absent Codd that had nothing to say.

Jack tore of there, chasing the sound of a friend and comrad in trouble. He hoped and prayed it was just equipment trouble. Snow gave way to ice as he plowed through. Snow whirled around him, and he fought to stay focused on the task at hand as his thoughts betrayed him—drifting towards warmer memories of tropical climates and solid food instead of the nutrient soup that the hot flow provided.

He was considerably startled out of his thoughts as he came upon the void. At first glance, he couldn't tell if the hollow was natural or artificial. Regardless, it had obviously been turned into a temporary living quarters—honestly, it was more like a lair. Artifacts scattered around the cave hinted that someone hereabouts had exerted knowledgeable efforts with the aim of personal survival. A slight movement made him turn sharply, rifle raised and at the ready. He didn't fire, though. He shifted the light, its beam touching a strung up figure. Jack recognized it immediately: Codd.

A quake of fear shot through him. He was bound and secured with his own cuffs, blood dripping down his neck with a shiv-sized wound in his gut. But Codd wasn't dead. Not yet. Not that the gash he'd sustained was in anyway repairable. Jack leaned in, wondering what to say, or if he should say anything—when abruptly, Codd's lips moved slightly. Jack slipped closer, hands shaking as he neared his dying comrade. Should he comfort him? Lie and tell him it was all right? That he could make it? Jack had to gulp back the bile rising in his throat as Codd tugged pitifully at the restraints holding him. Jack pushed any idea of comforting this mass of death to the back of his mind as Codd tried to form words. Though the dying merc's voice was little more than a whisper, Jack thought he could make out what the other man was saying.

"Behind you…"

Behind… Jack whipped around. The blur that slashed at his head still grazed him even in the perfect condition that he was in. Ice, wind, and horrid light cohorted together to impair his vision, leading him to fire blindly. Repeatedly. Already unbalanced on the slight slope inside the cave, the powerful recoil sent his twisting form stumbling back. He landed on the ice with a thud, sprawled out as he continued to fire at the dodgy target. Obedient to Newton, each shot sent him sliding a little father backwards.

Backwards toward the precipice that fronted the cavern.

He went over and nearly didn't catch himself. Nearly. Reflexes born of necessity saw him throw one arm out. His fingers locked into a crack just wide enough to offer a grip while he clung to his rifle. It was all right. He was okay. All he had to do was work his way up until he was safely in the line of a different danger. He was beginning to work his way back up, finding footholds in the frozen ice and rock, when a pair of feet stepped into his view. They were bound in leather and rubber—they were the kind of boots people killed for.

Almost automatically, his eyes followed them upward. A thick hulk of a man stood there, whose hair had grown out to the point where he resembled a snow beast. Jack could sense, if not see, the musculature rippling beneath the apparition's cobbled-together cold-weather attire. The man's eyes were hidden behind reflective goggles that were at once minimal in size and of clearly advanced design. Jack didn't recognize the style. They didn't appear to be any snow goggles that he'd ever seen before. It was even possible that they were intended to serve some other purpose.

He ambled unconcernedly forward, indifferent to the minimal threat that Jack provided. His posture, as well as his attitude, suggested either supreme stupidity or ultimate confidence. Both of which made his skin itch. There was a pause as the man crouched before him, twirling an odd looking shiv between his fingers. That's when Jack's fear finally came to the fore. He pulled the trigger on his rifle, the motion jerking him back and ruining his grip in the ice. He fell into the deep drop in silence except for his gun, from which he managed a few final shots before hitting the ground far below at bone crushing speed. The multiple rounds were as thunderous as they were wild.

Rising, the stranger walked fearlessly to the edge of the precipice and peered over. He whistled faintly at the sharp drop and sudden stop. His expression unchanging, he backed away from the brink and turned. Thought he didn't reveal it, he was slightly surprised at what he encountered.

The double barrels of a particularly nasty weapon were aimed directly at his midsection. They suited the individual who held them just fine. Toombs' name had always been a good running gag among the colleagues he'd had in his business. None of them had ever used the joke to his face of course. At least, none that could be found alive had done so.

Using the muzzles of the gun, he gestured slightly in the direction of the ragged, wind swept cliff that had recently been depopulated by one. "Two of my best boys. Both gone. You got no idea how careful I brought 'em both along. They had bright futures in the trade." He knew who he was facing off with; he knew he shouldn't let his anger get the best of him. Self-control or no, his voice rose perceptibly. "And now cuzza you—_cuzza you_—you subhuman piece of shit, they won't be around to split the reward money."

He began to laugh; it was hairsplitting and anything but appealing. Not everyone cackled when they laughed, nor made it sound like the final gasps of a dying man. Toombs chortled like a dyspeptic vulture.

In contrast, the man with the reflective goggles was as silent as the snow he stood in. Still crowing over his triumph, Toombs began to circle his trapped quarry—careful to keep his distance. He was in control, and fully intended to keep it that way.

"Let's see," he muttered, affecting a momentary uncertainty that was false and transparent. "Do I need to regale you with the contents of a hardcopy as to why I'm here? I don't think so. Escapee from Koravan Penal Facility. Escapee from the double-maximum security joint on Ribald Ess. Escapee from Tangiers Three Penal Colony. Escapee from the triple-max lock-down at Half Moon Bay. Officially on the outs for the fifty-eight standard months.

"Is there more? Oh, you _know_ there's more!" He sniggered. "Wanted on five worlds in three systems for… Lessee—_how_ many murders?" He feigned thoughtfulness, practically dancing with excitement. "Oh, yeah, baby, I bagged the man in motion, the killin' villain himself! Too bad about Codd and Jack. I'll just hafta handle their thirds for them. Life's a bitch, but Death, she can give it up whenever she wants to. Guess I must live right."

Now he did giggle, a sound more unsettling than his regular laugh. Removing a pair of cuffs from his utility belt, he dangled them like an enticement to a dance. Toombs tossed the cuffs at his quarry. They bounced off the man's chest and fell into the snow. The quarry glanced down at them, then back up at the mercenary, still not saying a word. Toombs grit his teeth, taking aim and letting loose with both barrels. The breeze from the exposive shells passed close enough to the man's skull to ruffle his tangle of dark hair. It was more eloquent than any threat Toombs could've uttered.

Bending, the quarry picked up the cuffs and worked them around his back. Cuffing oneself wasn't an easy task—not even for a renegade contortionist. He took his time, but he made it look easy. Toombs edged behind him, twin gun muzzles never wavering, he checked the cuffs. With practiced fingers, the mercenary checked and rechecked the bonds. No funny business there, at least. The cuffs were locked and secure.

Licking his lips, he made his voice as low and intimidating as possible. "An' just for the file. Just so you don't forget. The guy all upon your neck right now? It's Toombs. The name of your new shot-caller is Toombs. Easy to remember. It's what you're going to end up in."

This time, the man did react but not in the way Toombs expected. He was too big, too wide, to do what he did. The honest impossibility of it didn't hit Toombs until later. All he knew was that one second his moneymaker was standing before him, and the next, he had sprung into the air in a backwards somersault over the head of the stunned merc. In the process, he simultaneously dislocated his shoulders and his wrists. One freed hand came around in an arc to smack the weapon out of Toombs' hands. The other caught it before it had flipped halfway to the ground.

The man stood before, the now cowering, Toombs with a bored expression. With a sickening pop, he rolled his shoulders back into socket, his face revealing no hint of pain. All he knew was that instead of holding the fun on this behemoth, it was this hulk of a man that was pressing the double barrels just under Toombs' jaw. A single shot would messily remove that important bit of skeletal structure, along with half of the mercenary's head. Toombs fell very still.

"Your life or your ship," his voice rolled out like a low purr. "You decide, shot-caller. And just for the file? My name's Riddick. Richard B. Riddick." The barrels pressed harder against the soft flesh of his neck. "Two things you coulda done better, _Toombs_. One: never let an established murderer put his own cuffs on. And two—and this is really the more important part—never take a two-man crew to take me out. Idiocy, is what that is. Damn insulting…

"Now… Hand me your ship locator. Or I can sort it out for myself."

Toombs gave a defiant growl, but his shaking hands spoke otherwise as he dug about in his pockets. All manner of hardware hit the snow before he finally found the locator. With a resigned huff, he handed the thing over. In his mind, he'd come up with all sorts of names for the bastard in front of him. He got plenty of time to give them a loud voice later when he was strung up in his own cuffs and buried under two feet of snow.

* * *

Tbc.


	3. Chapter 2: Of Dreams and Sorrow

It was a better ship than he was expecting. A Flattery C-19 undercutter—low-slung, handsome, contemporary, and brand new. It was exactly the kind of vessel a pack of mercs would utilize. Doubtless it had cost Toombs and team a pretty credit or two. Now it belonged to someone else: him.

The locator said that the ship was empty. He entered through the part as warily as if the compact craft were crammed with waiting, heavily armed representatives of the law. It was exactly as empty as the locator insisted it was. He settled himself into the command chair, methodically coaxing the metal beast to life. Though he wasn't a professional pilot, he definitely knew his standard skiff. Though some of the indicator markings were unfamiliar, the controls were basic enough.

With the ship alert and waiting, he paused to delve into the internal database. Yet another useful talent. His lips twitched slightly as his own record appeared, glowing softly with the details of his personal history. Alone, much to his chagrin, he read silently to himself from the section catalogued under "LEADS".

"…Now known to have survived emergency reentry and subsequent vessel crash on the triple-star system M-344/G. Likely killer of Class-I mercenary William J. Johns. Possible sighting on Lupus III. Reported seen on… Reported seen on…" There were quite a few of the latter. He frowned at the extensive list, knowing he'd been to everyone of those places searching. His jaw clenched slightly at the thought of it. He'd been searching a long time. Almost five years of riding in the wake of the one he most desired. He had questions that needed to be answered, and a need that had to be satisfied.

With a deep huff, he searched through the read out until he found the part labeled "PAYDAY". Generally, the rates only ranged from three hundred thousand K up to seven-fifty. It all depended on what slam was paying. This time, however, was a glaring exception. One point five million credits. Universal denomination or specific currency of choice. Hard cash. Riddick hit it, opening the file to see who could possibly want him that much. The words _private party_ came as no surprise, but the location of origin was a bit of a shocker.

**Planet:** Hellion Prime. **Region: **New Mecca.

"So even friends have their price," he murmured to the screen. It didn't reply.

Quickly typing in coordinates, he hit the autopilot and the ship got ready for the long haul. There was no reason for him to remain awake and every reason to enter cryosleep. Without artificial aids, humans didn't last long under the stresses of supralight travel. Lights dimmed overhead. Cryosleep tubing automatically attacked onto its single occupant, taking over functions, preparing his body to cope with the stresses of extended deep space travel. His eyelids fluttered close after he pulled his goggles off.

It was good to sleep. He hadn't been able to do so without concern for a long time. At least in the safety of the pilot's chair, nurtured and looked after by the ship's life support systems, he could relax. He could dream. He could imagine tan skin, blue eyes, and a wicked smile. That same smile he'd been hunting for so long. _Five years_ of searching. He doubted that he'd ever wanted anything so much as those eyes and that smile. He knew part of the drive was unnatural—the note he'd left behind had told him as much. The note that had almost crushed any good, human part he had leftover. _Almost_.

The honest truth of it was, it made him angry. He'd stayed for a while after he left, but that couldn't last long. Not with the desire and rage bubbling just under his skin. Not with the longing to complete the bond he'd made itching at the back of his mind. He left of a mission—rampaging through planets in search of answers as to _why_ he'd left him that night. The only person he'd ever put a little trust in had left him. Left him confused and befuddled and hurt. But in the end, Riddick wanted him back. Badly.

Granted, that had been explained in the note. The quickly scrawled, two page nothingness that had him staring at a wall blankly for the longest time. The note that told him they weren't mates—not yet. The note that told Riddick he was "sorry, but I have to leave". All because the want would be too strong if he stayed, and he didn't want to force a life of "immortal loneliness" on him. Riddick had scoffed at that. It was so melodramatic of him. So predictably selfless—and the exact reason he was hunting him so avidly. Exactly the reason he could let himself fall in love with him.

He pondered those unfamiliar emotions with a wary acceptance. Meanwhile, the small but sturdy vessel he sat in went about its business. The machine wurred along, taking note of inhabited systems within its range. Each planet appeared momentarily on the monitor even though no organism's eyes were active to absorb them. When one identified a passing system as Furya, the unconscious man in the pilot's chair stirred slightly.

"They say most of your brain shuts down in cryosleep. All but the primitive side. The animal side."

Riddick tensed in his seat, hands clutching on the armrest as the familiar voice purred in his ear. It was a teasing whisper just before a ghost of heat fluttered over his eyelids. It was a caress. With sincere effort, he dragged his eyes open. The smell of danger and sweetness made him lick his lips—he _knew _that smell.

He reached out, eyes still fogged over with the drugs in his system. His fingers brushed against soft material and warm skin. Waiting, his eyes searching but not quite seeing what he wanted. He felt the shallow breaths and the rapid heartbeat. His hand was brushed aside and a body pressed to his, lips hovering by his ear as Riddick wrapped his arms around the lithe form.

"_I need you,"_ he whispered, mouth brushing the hell of his ear; his breath scorching his skin in all of the right ways. _"I need you, Riddick. Come find me."_

And then the body and heat and relief was _gone_. Riddick jerked in his seat, eyes finally clear, but the cryosleep restraints kept him still as he glanced frantically around the ship. He was alone. He was _goddamn ruttin' _alone. Something was wrong. Or if not wrong, at least not right. _He_ had been there with him—talking to him, touching him, pressed to him. He had been there. Riddick didn't mistake such things.

There was a reflection in one screen. A glimmer of movement. Nothing on the ship should've been moving. With a single touch, the pilot's chair spun around. A lesser individual might've screamed at what he saw. Riddick didn't. He just sat there, tubes and connectors still leeched into his right arm, staring, studying, trying to make sense of the sight before him. He was having a hard time doing so.

He was, after all, no longer alone.

Even though she was slender and delicate looking, the woman before him conveyed an inner hardness. He felt he ought to know her even though he'd never seen her before. The impossibility wasn't insane. Dreaming perhaps, but not insane.

Behind her, the ship was gone. It had been replaced by something older and earthier. Metal had transformed into a world of trees and undergrowth and picture perfect skies. The ground was littered with objects whose purpose and shape had changed little in thousands of years: gravestones. He had no time to study the eerily familiar surroundings as the woman moved forward with a slow, confident stride. His mind fought violently against what he was seeing—trying to replace the scene with cold metal and unforgiving flashing lights.

As he struggled, more and more of the ship vanished. It was all replaced by more forest and grave stones. There were a lot of the latter. Too many. Perception blurred as a hot hand fell on his shoulder, and he glanced up, seeing his boy at his side—but he was different. Colder, stronger, and still unbelievably gorgeous. He finally _seemed_ the age that he was. Riddick tried to move; he tried to reach out for him again, hoping that he was real—that he was _there_. But as the edges around him blurred and shimmered he knew it was an illusion. Those blue eyes fell on him for a moment, and they flickered red for a moment before they turned angrily on the woman.

His boy let loose a snarl as the woman smiled gently, Riddick finally glanced back. "I am Shirah. Think of this as a dream, if you need to.

"But you know better. _He_ knows better." She gestured to the blonde man, and Riddick had the feeling that wherever he really was—he was caught in their illusion, too. "Some of us know the true crime that happened here, on Furya." Drifting dreamily, one hand gestured to the nearest gravestones, but her eyes never left the half demon's—as if she didn't trust his presence. "We'll never have them back. But we can have this world again. Someday. _You_ can have this world again."

Riddick's brain had been tuned to coping with the unlikely, the unreasonable, the unacceptable. It refused to dismiss the information his eyes and ears insisted on conveying. This world he felt he knew. This woman he felt connected to. The fact that his boy—his _demon_—was there, somehow, protecting him.

"Once you remember, you will never forget," placing one hand over her chest, the woman waited until it began to glow softly.

Riddick could catch glimpses of the bones in her fingers as she removed it from her chest with a small gasp. Approaching, she reached toward him, fingers extended. An almost blood curdling growl was released from the man next to him, and he was suddenly between Riddick and Shirah, her fingers brushing over bronze skin. Her eyes widened, and she let out a low sound of frustration before disappearing and taking her world with her. Riddick tensed as his boy gasped and stumbled back.

All he wanted was to see those eyes again. See them before he had to wake up—because, surely, he was sleeping. But he wouldn't face him. He seemed to tremble—his whole being wavering against the metal background.

"_I'm sorry, Riddick."_ He whispered, but it sounded almost robotic—like he was speaking through a jammed radio. _"I'm sorry… I didn't know—I _couldn't_ have known."_

The blonde before him twisted, facing him marginally, but his eyes were downcast. He saw the tear slip down his cheek, and watched as it fizzled out before it hit the ground. The lithe form flickered in and out of being, but Riddick's silver gaze widened as he caught sight of the almost bluish glow on his chest in the shape of a hand. He tried to reach out to him.

"_I've seen worse,"_ he muttered with a self-depreciating smile. _"I've done worse. But I'm still sorry." _

Something jolted him awake. His dream hung ominously overhead, and he already missed the sight of him. His skin started to itch for him, again. With a low sigh, he glanced at the ship's instruments, and saw what had woken him. He had just entered at me, and he was closing in on his destination.

Clearing its electronic throat, the ship's communicator snapped him forcefully into a world without his demon. Something banged against him, and the merc ship bounced violently. The windshields blew open, light flooding through, and Riddick groaned and turned from the blinding light. Grabbing his goggles, he yanked them on with a growl. The cryosleep tubes left him as he took the skiff off of autopilot. He waited for a moment, to see if anything was screaming for attention because of danger, but the hull integrity seemed fine. Swiftly, his fingers began to dance over the manual controls.

There was only one sip on him. It was a wicked looking little one-pilot job, its external elegance reflecting the advanced state of Helion technology. A second bump had the ship jolting awkwardly, and Riddick grit his teeth. Taking a dive, he waved to the other ship and quickly rolled into a stratacloud. Just as he expected, the law enforcer followed him into the mess. It barely took him a moment to tuck under the other ship and lift with a twist. The Helion fighter spiraled away, damaged and possibly out of control.

Riddick watched it disappear into the distance while shaking his head slowly, "Never mess with a guy with a loner."

He checked the monitors. He's sustained some damage from the deliberate collision, and the longer he flew the more likely that damage would become fatal. With a small sigh, Riddick steered the ship out of the clouds, and peered out the glass to see the world below him.

The ocean was green. Riddick had seen oceans of liquid methane as different in hue as they were brilliant. The color suited him. He'd always had an affinity for the water. He fought to slow the ship as he started his decent, and blue-green waves gave way to those that were colored yellow and white and beige: sand dunes. He wouldn't have minded spending his days on these beaches with that tan skin and those laughing blue eyes. He could happily imagine taking a tumble in the sand and racing to the water.

Jaw clenched, the ship touched down in a most ungentle way. He slammed into the thickest dune, jerking slightly in his seat. Sand cascaded over the metal as Riddick killed the machine and got out of his seat, slipping from the pilot's harness. He had arrived.

Somewhere else. Without him. Again.

Tbc.


	4. Chapter 3: The State of Things

Helion Prime was a crossroads. The makeup of its citizens attested to that. The city was home to every variation in stature, shade, and sensibility of contemporary humanity. It was all reflected in the city's art, in its commerce, in its entertainment. On its streets, citizens went about business with a slightly superior attitude. In its skies, every imaginable transport craft hurried along.

Even in its politics, the cities melting pot feel was evident. Uncommon to Helion government, yelling and shouting filled the outer chambers and anterooms of the capitol dome—an immense dome that dominated the skyline of the capital city of New Mecca.

Pulling on a cloak, one woman fled the cacophony. Her expression was drawn up, disgusted and depressed at the same time. She appeared worn out and fatigued and utterly fed up. Curious beyond restraint, an aide intercepted her as she was treading out of the Dome. With a nod of his head, he indicated the barely controlled chaos that presently filled the interior.

"Delegate Fry, I've been working under you for three years, and I have been attending these meetings only six months less. I have _never _seen such signs of dissention. What is happening in there?"

"Alli," the delegate paused, a slow smile forming on her face. "How many times have I told you to call me Caroline—or at least_ just_ Fry?"

Alli smiled bashfully, "Many apologies, delegate Fry. But I'm afraid that familiar titles will make me seem unprofessional."

"You're fifteen, Alli," Fry chortled, patting his head affectionately. "You mustn't be so serious, yet. You are far too young."

"Yes, delegate—" Alli blushed faintly before correcting himself. "Caroline."

Fry nodded, smiling politely and straightening her robes. "As for what's going on… When all is said and done? Much will be said—and nothing will be done. Go take a peak if you want to. But I expect you home within the hour."

Alli's face brightened considerably as Fry swept away, cloak billowing around her. He quickly made his way over to the large towering doors, his curious gaze peering through the crack. The shouting and arguing within didn't bode well. The comments and observations being made only seemed to unsettle him more—he knew that Fry would talk to him about it later. She would make sure that he understood the issues fully.

"Shut down the beacons!" The Defense Minister roared, her voice strong even in a gaggle of powerful voices. "We need to save the energy; save all the resources for _this_ world! We can't continue to export at a time of such uncertainly, when planetary defense should be everyone's first priority."

Alli seemed puzzled. Was there something coming? He shuddered at the memory of talons and harpy-like screams. Surely what these people were debating on couldn't compare to the horror of his past. Surely such things as this were these men and woman of peace's real issue. Surely that was nothing to what he and his patchwork family went through.

As the arguments grew louder and more heated, Alli withdrew from his spot. He didn't want to know this. He didn't need to. Twelve different planets going dark couldn't mean anything to him. He was finally finding his footing—whatever this was, it _couldn't_ tear his newer, happier world apart.

Then again, 'denial' wasn't just a methane river on Helion Omega in the New Egypt district.

* * *

Fry could have taken a personal or public transport, but when possible she preferred to walk. She used to love flying—subzero space travel mostly—but nowadays she generally liked to keep her feet on the ground. Quitting being a pilot had been a tough decision. She could only thank her stars that she'd double majored in economics back in University before she'd become a registered flyer—otherwise she would have been out of a job.

As it was, her job as delegate in New Mecca was quite well paying.

She came in sight of her destination, and she glanced at her delicate but rather old-fashioned watch. Gawking at the time, she knew that her partner would be angry with her for being so late. Though New Mecca was considered to be one of the safest capital cities in the known 'Verse, it still had its flaws. Shazza hated it when she wasn't home on time—she said it made her worry.

Reading and responding to her biometrics, the doorway opened to admit her entry. She paused as the door shut behind her, listening to the sound of a running shower and the 'Verse's newest music trickle down from upstairs. She had begun to relax as she entered the parlor, stripping off her cloak with a sigh of relief. She dragged a hand through her blonde hair, but came to an abrupt halt when a sound informed her that she was wrong: all was _not _as it should be. That she recognized the sound didn't trouble her nearly as much as the fact that she recognized the voice that spoke to her over the steady scrape, scrape of blade against synthetic stone.

"It was the worst place I could find," the familiar gravely tone spoke in volumes. "I had been wondering if I kept going those kinds of places I would find him. Searched far and wide. I just wanted him. I wanted to be free with him and ignored by all else. Funny how I always get the opposite of what I want."

Fry gulped loudly, turning toward the voice. She knew that if its owner had wanted her dead she would be. She would already be lying on the floor, a test-drive for decomposing bacteria.

"Where?" She croaked out, voice wavering.

"Some frozen heap," Riddick was murmuring as he worked. The blade sliding smoothly over his increasingly bare skull; thick, unruly locks fell like dead mambas on the floor below him. "No real name, no real sun. Thought maybe he would be hiding under the snow there. Been running out of planets to search. There isn't much else out there for a man like him to hide. Too unique… I was just hoping I could search for him in the shadows of nowhere." Straightening, he studied his handiwork in a mirror that hung on the wall, almost as if he could see the darkness of the small but extravagant workspace. Except that, as Fry knew, there was no 'almost' about it.

Riddick turned to the silent woman, a frown on his face. "But someone wouldn't let me do it. Someone couldn't leave bad enough alone. Suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. People have always disappointed me."

Even in the poor lighting, eye contact was made. Fry stayed silent. There was no point in speaking until commentary was needed. She didn't want to say anything that might upset her uninvited guest. From experience, Fry knew that it didn't take much—especially when discussing the missing member of their patchwork family. Without thinking, she glanced upstairs, and Riddick's lips twitched amusedly.

"She's in the shower," he muttered dryly, "other one's singing rather off tune."

Fry nodded, a small tremor running up her spine.

"I told _one_ person where I'd be going to look for him. Trusted _one_ person when I left this place. After what we'd been through, I thought I could do that much…" Riddick said, ominously twirling the shiv in his hand. "Was I wrong?"

"There isn't a simple answer—"

The blade was resting under her chin the instant she uttered the last syllable. She never even saw him move. One moment he'd been dangling it precariously from his fingers, and the next it was cold and biting against the soft skin of her neck.

"Was. I. Wrong?" Riddick repeated with deceptive softness.

There was a notable quaver in her voice when she spoke, "I give you my word, Riddick. As delegate to the government of Helion Prime—" The large man made noise that some would consider unflattering. "—and as a _friend_, that whatever has been said was merely to give us a fighting chance. If not for the events during these past few months, things might—"

She broke off, as a third presence became known in the room. Their gazes shifted to the stairway, where a young woman stared back with excited eyes. She didn't seem to notice the danger her adoptive mother was in—or, she simply believed the danger a sham. Either way, her face broke into an elated smile as she bounced slightly on her toes.

"Riddick?" She asked, hoping this wasn't a dream.

His brow quirked up bemusedly. "Jack."

The eighteen year old almost squealed in delight. She was about to dart down the stairs to greet her much-missed savior, but a hand on her shoulder made her pause. Shazza stood, garbed in a silk robe and still wet from the shower. Her bright eyes glanced between Riddick and her wife, and her face curled in confusion.

"Riddick," she said, echoing Jack. "What the bleedin' hell do you think you're doin'?"

Her tone was heated and threatening. It made him recall a time when she'd taken the liberty of trying to bash his face in. With a low chuckle, he drew the knife away from Fry's neck. Advancing up the steps, he scanned the women with a flashing silver gaze. Jack's pulse seemed to pick up, but Shazza simply stood there, brow raised. He circled the two of them before halting as he spotted something. He gingerly lifted her right hand, seemingly fascinated by the delicate gold ring there. He glanced down at Fry, a slight smile on his face.

"Married?"

"It happened not long after…" her voice trailed off. She didn't need to explain. Riddick had been there for all the 'after'.

"You know," Riddick muttered, dropping Shazza's hand in order to circle them all again. "It's been a long time since 'beautiful entered my skull… How long has it been, Fry?"

"Five. Five years."

Shazza rolled her eyes, "Like you don't already know that, you sod."

"Good Gamma, I've missed you, Riddick." Jack exclaimed suddenly, practically jumping out of her skin as she wrapped her arms around his neck in an awkward embrace. Awkward for Riddick.

Shazza tried not to laugh at the slightly baffled look on the grown man's face. His brow quirked up as a small chuckle escaped her. With slow, hesitant movements, Riddick pat Jack on the back as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. It had been a long time since he'd been around life. It had been even longer since he'd been held so close. Since he'd felt any sort of compassion.

Jack pulled back slowly, a goofy smile on her face as she reveled in the sight of him. "Have you missed me?"

Riddick paused, uncertain for a moment before he nodded. "I have. You've grown up, Jack."

"I know, right?" She giggled, bright eyes gleaming.

And she _had_ grown up. She was taller. Lither. If she'd been anyone else, he would have probably felt an attraction to her. But she was Jack. She was Naruto's Jack. Riddick let his heart ache at the thought of him.

"Come, Jack." Shazza drew the young woman away, a fleeting smile passing over her as she escorted the girl down the hall. "Leave them to speak."

There was a long pause before Riddick turned to Fry again. Their gazes crashed and she saw the pain hidden there. She saw the loss and desire mingling and consuming everything Riddick used to be. He was lost. Just like the rest of them.

"Who did you tell?" He asked resignedly. "Who do I gotta put on a slab to get this rancid payday offa my head? You should've kept your mouth shut."

"Events conspired. We needed you." Fry relaxed a little. "You can't find them. Even if you look."

The large man grinned. "Why would I look? When you can bring them to me?"

"It's not as easy as that, Riddick."

His smile vanished immediately. "Don't talk to me about what isn't easy. I know that more than most. My whole life has been about surviving what isn't easy."

Fry went to speak again, "Riddick—"

"If communications still function on this over lit ball of dirt, it's time to use them."

TBC.


End file.
